


Shutter, Shatter

by Dirtcore Dreams (NakedEye)



Series: Upon Request [4]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Actor Derek Hale, Celebrities, Dubious Consent, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Exhibitionism, Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M, Past Abuse, Rape/Non-con Elements, Self-Destruction, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Sexual Abuse, Video Cameras, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-29
Updated: 2018-07-29
Packaged: 2019-06-18 00:59:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15474003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NakedEye/pseuds/Dirtcore%20Dreams
Summary: Derek's a golden boy of the silver screen, but he sure doesn't feel like one. He's ready to crash to the ground, to let it all burn. And he knows just how. He's gonna give the people everything they never wanna admit they want. A sex tape to assassinate who he can't keep pretending to be.





	Shutter, Shatter

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was created for a prompt given to me over on [my tumblr](drivenbyadevilshunger.tumblr.com). If you'd like to request one of your own, head on over and take a gander at all my works. 
> 
> Also, this fic has some heavy shit. Watch your tags, please. Don't want any of you to experience things you aren't looking for.

There's all these bits of yourself you sell, when you are famous—all these piece of being a human that the public no longer thinks you need. Because they gave you money. Because they think they love you. Because you're no longer an actual person, but an object that they spend eighteen dollars on opening night to see immaculately lit and projected across a silver screen.

They own you. They control what's a success and what isn't. They tell you what you should care about and where you should spend your time and what's expected of you. And they don't like it if you try and take back the reins, they don't like it if you're not at their beck and call—a mere 140 characters away from owing an explanation.

At least, that's what it's like for Derek. And the problem is, he's tired of fighting, he's giving them what they clamor for. He actually asked his agent to ask around for the pricing on a pound of his flesh. It's top dollar, turns out. He's got an image, despite scandal. The hundreds of thousands of hands reaching out to pull him down have a hunch of what's secretly at his heart and they want to tear him open, expose it.

He'd been so careful. Only shows on certain networks. Only roles that had a certain moral compass. Only interviews with outlets that had a proven record for where they leaned. But there were the rumors, these whispers of a time he was where he shouldn't be and gotten take down a peg for it.

Some indie thing with leather, grime, and gore. He thought he'd gotten it all shut down, he thought that he had already paid a high enough price that he'd only have worry about it in his memory, his dreams. The things they gave him that got him placid, the things people watched her do to him, the things they thought he'd let them get away with.

Derek was broken a long, long time ago. He got shattered into so many, fine pieces, that no matter how meticulously they glued him, there would always be bits missing. Some had simple evaporated into fine, chalky dust. But he still had his veneer. He was still an old classic with the proper papers. He was easy to work with and said yes to the simple projects and never played a single political card.

That stopped being enough, though. Even if he was the one that put himself on a shelf, he still knew he was hollow inside. He could feel the cracks covered in lacquer. And he just wanted out. He wanted to break through the display case even if it meant never being prized again.

This was the final price. This was the last thing he could sell. This photographer had a reputation and Derek was an actor. He knew just how to play the part. He already had the credentials. Sweet kid, came up on Christian television. Made sure to have very public relationships with pretty girls that never sold the passion. He didn't take _risky_ parts, never commented on colleagues that did. He was shy and silly and had a workout regimen only someone being paid to do it could uphold.

So they started with his shirt simply unbuttoned. He wasn't supposed to have chest hair, but if he was gonna go out, he was sure as hell gonna stop fucking waxing. The endless posing. The ken doll primping. What man was really spray tanned all one even color? A seamless coating? What man had not a single hair past his neck, his elbow, his knee? What man was always oiled, never oily, proportioned like an action figurine?

Even men painted on the Sistine Chapel, carved nude to stand in front of thousands, heroes of stories thousands of years old didn't look like him. They had soft stomachs. They had small cocks. Their faces were round and their thighs had creases and they had hair under their arms! Derek had been made to transcend Gods of ancients! Or so others saw, said, wrote in their hungry articles. He felt reduced to this thing that you polished every few months, that got sanded and touched up and was never allowed to be touched for fear of the damage contact could do to his skin.

So he had hair on his chest. It was still thin coming back, this little diamond that looked like it belonged on a kid stoked to be on their high school basketball team. He knows, he was that kid. His denim shirt is open to show it off, but not denim like the men that wear it because it's sturdy, it doesn't mind stains, it protects their skin. He's wearing denim that's been dyed a certain shade, worn in exact patches, costs more than the entire check of a blue collar worker.

He's wearing it in a setting of a cabin set up in a studio overlooking billboards and highways. Reclined against a bed, frame made of “reclaimed” wood. A screen projecting a fireplace throws an orange glow over him. The man that arranged it. The man that Derek picked out. The man that would shatter him and set Derek free—he was in cargo shorts, pockets filled with memory cards and lenses and little devices that measured light.

He wore an ill-fitting polo to hide a father's paunch, a cap to hide his male pattern baldness, a ring on the finger that was supposed to set Derek at ease. A family man could never do what Derek was looking for. A guy just trying to get by would never take advantage of him, sell him out. He called Derek buddy and talked about the draft and let his calloused fingers linger over Derek's skin as he adjusted the shirt to lay open just so.

In this moment, for his own reasons, Derek didn't hate this man. A better person would. A person unbroken would look past his own needs and see a guy that preyed on people as depressed as him, as desperate as him. Instead Derek furrowed his brows just so, left his mouth open so, so softly, made his eyes sleepy and unaware.

Derek let those hands that had no reason to touch his stomach circle the little patch of growing in treasure trail and in response, gave what was being asked for, what simmered underneath their nice chatter. Derek read between the lines, like every good actor should. He saw what this character was being asked of, what the role of his part was, the requirements to move forward.

His body made him money. His body was his tool that got him everything he had in life. Derek knew how to pull every string, manipulate every inch, get the exact desired result. Derek let this man fluff his cock and let him know that it was working. At this point he didn't know if he ever really experienced arousal, or if his body just knew the right response to another's lust.

Derek had sex in his life. Derek had had orgasms. Derek had fucked the same woman, sucked cocks put through holes in stalls, bent over and relaxed. Derek liked the idea of sex, but would never say it had been anything other than a chore. He got his cock hard because this man wanted a photograph of him with a bulge so he and thousands of others could stare at it and talk about him and cum over their screen to share with each other.

Derek didn't think of it as experiencing arousal. He didn't get a thin sheen of sweat over his body. His hips didn't drift or buck. His breathing didn't even change. He simply filled his shorts better, to look better for the picture, to make this photographer like him more and want to take it further.

“Hitch your leg a little higher? Gooood. Tilt those hips toward me, buddy. Give 'em a little nipple, you're a man, it's okay. There you go, there you go!” Derek popped his pants button. Derek gave him shots with his feet prominently displayed. Derek rubbed low on his belly, exposed his neck, closed his eyes. “I'm just gonna draw the curtains, okay bud? I'm getting glares off the cars.”

Derek just nodded his head as he watched cloth cover what was about to be done to him. It was alright, plenty of people would see soon enough. They'd get a first person view. He figured some of them were smart enough they could stick it in VR, fuck a piece of silicone and degrade him just as much on their own time.

“Why don't you lose that shirt? We've got plenty in it and I wanna see you _raw._ You're a man in the wilderness, bare yourself to the wind. That scruff was cured to say you chop wood all day _and_ all night.” Derek didn't even have enough of an urge to roll his eyes, just did what he was told.

The camera man lifted his arms above his head, made him recline. He felt along the tender insides, told Derek little people knew the male armpit was a major erogenous zone, breathed so warm and wet against his nape. Derek tucked his face against his tricep. Derek flexed while in a “resting” position. Derek parted his lips in what people could interpret was a moan even as he was silent.

“Wow, wow, wow. You're giving me a hundred Derek, but let's make it one-twenty, huh? Let's knock 'em off their feet, buddy. Whaddya say? Let's make the covers.” Derek was never explicitly asked. Derek was not physically coerced. Derek took off his pants and clenched his ass and framed the bulge of his cock with his hands.

The camera man touched his inner thighs to put Derek's legs where he wanted them. He pinched at Derek's nipples to make sure they were tantalizingly hard. He put his thumb in Derek's mouth to swipe spit on his bottom lip and make it shine beneath the soft box lights. Derek played pretty. Derek gave him tortured. Derek gave every wanton, scared, confused girlfriend of a vampire a run for their money.

But the camera man wasn't done. Derek was intact. This would reach the covers of magazines. They both wanted to be the clickbait across every seedy section of the internet a person could come across. The camera man brushed Derek's shaft as he used four fingers to pull just the front of his boxers down, tuck them beneath his balls, arrange the testicles to rest just so.

He pulled back Derek's foreskin, licked his thumb and ran it across the slit of his cockhead so precum beaded, all shiny and sweet. He combed his fingers through Derek's sparse pubes, still growing back, combing them to make them as neat as possible. “Get on your knees, bud. Let's show that world the ass they've all been dreaming about.”

Derek shook his cheeks. Derek spread them so he got a good shot of the dusky hole. Derek tucked his cock between his thighs and squished his balls and pillowed his face against the mattress as though he were being held there with a stomping foot.

The camera man stopped taking shots, Derek didn't hear the click of the shutter any longer. A fresh card was put in, space enough for it all to be shot in stunning, HD video. Derek's eyes were glazed like he'd snorted something pure enough to put an elephant down.

He got his cock sucked until it was hard. He had a thumb pressed into his hole dry. He sucked on poles like he was gonna take them deep in his throat, let his sweaty hair hang over his forehead, made whimpering noises like he was being given more than he could ever hope to handle. He arched his back so his chest popped out while the camera man groped at his pecs, hard enough to bruise.

“Fuck me,” Derek whined, high and reedy and indistinguishable from men who were getting paid much less to do the same thing. It was what they wanted. The camera man's stomach loomed over a cock that's foreskin pinched too tight over the head. His hands were meaty and stubby as they furiously jacked Derek off, so rough he wasn't sure he could make himself come.

He got his thighs spanked, his chest bitten, his prostate mashed so hard tears formed in the corner of his eyes. “It's okay, buddy. They're gonna love it.” Derek knew they would. Derek was counting on it. He came just enough that it stood out against his dark bush. He let the camera man pull out and spray into his eyes so he had to scrunch his face, pull his hair so he moved his head and showed off all the right angles to make it shine.

“Got anything to say to all your fans out there?”

Derek finally fell from the pedestal. Derek relaxed against rock bottom. Derek gave the first honest answer to a camera, ever, in his life. “I always said I'd give you my all. Well now you've got everything.”

 


End file.
